


Your Majesty

by deeper_happier



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hypnosis, Kingdomstuck, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Porn Without Plot, Royal Strider, Sir English, Subspace, Tournaments, Trance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeper_happier/pseuds/deeper_happier
Summary: English releases your hand. And he turns, and he walks away, and you can’t make your legs do more than stay straight for the next few minutes. There’s a heat in your stomach, an ache that urges you to chase him and exercise your royal authority to strip him naked and fuck him until you forget you’re a king.





	Your Majesty

**Author's Note:**

> This work is being hosted for an anonymous author.
> 
> The NSFW inspiration: http://ticci-frikkin-tabbi.tumblr.com/post/112798907508/my-friend-the-frog-for-reds-davejake

Your birthday is celebrated very differently now that you’re a king. Dignitaries and diplomats heap all kinds of presents onto you. When you were a prince, the only presents you directly received were from your friends and family and everyone got the day off as a holiday. Now, your royal birthday comes with additional political spectacle: a ball and a tourney and a presentation of gifts. All your neighbors and allies have a chance to win your favor by showering you in trinkets.

You’ve been standing here for hours receiving gifts. Some definitely do better than others. The Alternian empress sends a solid gold statuette of herself, which you can almost respect for its audacity. The sister queens of the Enchanted Forest sent a rare historical account from an otherwise unrecorded age that you’ll be sure to never read. Your favorite gift so far is a barrel of hard cider and a sapling tree of a new species of apple. This gift alone is enough to win a generation of peace with the North Pacificans anytime soon.

Then the delegation from the Verdant Isles arrives. A young man in armor struts forward with his chin held high. He has dark hair, sparkling eyes, and a few scars on his face along with a smile. His jaunty grin works wonders for his face, making the lines on his cheek and brow look like trophies instead of wounds. When he reaches the foot of your throne, he bows low and elegant.

“On behalf of the Queen of the Verdant Isles, I wish you the most splendid of birthdays,” he announces. His voice sounds grand and energetic, like a song.

“Her wishes are accepted,” you answer. A king must be impartial, that’s what you were taught.

The knight looks up at you, a smirk playing out on his lips. There is no rule against knights showing feelings, and perhaps it’s just the fashion of his people to wear hearts on sleeves. He reaches into a purse at his waist and produces a wooden box the size of his fist. Opening it, you see a heavy emerald set in a gold ring. That is an impressively expensive gift, and you can’t help but notice the jewel is the same color as his eyes.

“May I, your majesty?” the knight asks. He takes the ring from the box and kneels before you.

You have the option to say no, but you don’t feel like it. You take a step closer and offer your right hand. He has his pick of your fingers, since you don’t wear other rings. Cradling your hand, he chooses your index finger and slips the ring past your knuckles. The metal feels warm, even though it’s been resting in a box for doubtless hours.

Then he kisses the jewel. You exhale, and for some reason have trouble breathing again. His fingers caress your hand and his fingertips feel like bubbles dancing along your skin. He looks up at you, and a fantasy brews in your head before you can suppress it: you want to cup his face with your hands, draw him closer to you, have him fellate you in the throne room, spectators be damned. The way he smiles makes you suspect he’d be good at it. Like he knows exactly how to pleasure you…

The knight draws his hand away and leaves the heavy ring on your hand. You find your breath again and stare down at him. What was he doing again? And what were you doing?

“Thank you to… your liege, for this generosity.” You’ve already forgotten who he’s representing. You want to give your thanks directly to him. You want him to touch you again.

He stands and gives you another bow. “It is a small token of our good wishes and friendship toward you on this magnificent day.”

“Wait,” the word is out of your mouth without any consideration your position. You hadn’t asked any of the others to wait. This is favoritism. You can’t bring yourself to care. “What is your name?”

The knight smiles. “Sir English, your majesty,” he says. “You might have seen my name on the list of tournament competitors?”

You try to pull it together. “Of course. Good luck to you, Sir English.” You tuck the hand that now bears an emerald ring behind your back. Sir English leaves, and you have to greet the next envoy, even though you feel dizzy and queasy and want to call English back to kiss your hand again.

 

* * *

 

You see him again in the halls that evening. You are coming from a meeting with the tournament planners. He is coming from who knows where. Just seeing him again nearly makes you trip over your own feet. He’s got less armor on now, just a shirt and tunic. It reminds you how you’ve been wearing heavy regalia all day.

You wonder if he would undress you.

Then you wonder where that thought came from.

“Your majesty!” Sir English greets you. “Delighted to cross your path again. You have quite the labyrinth for a palace, gorgeous stuff here! I can imagine all the adventures you must have had growing up here.”

“It kept a young mind busy,” you answer neutrally, but something keeps you talking. “There’s more trapdoors and hidey holes than you can shake a sword at, though most of them are child-sized. I wouldn’t fit now. It’s like an entire extra castle built inside this one for the exclusive use of its tiniest occupants.”

“Sounds like days of entertainment,” English grins. The corners of your mouth want to smile back, but you resist it. You’re a king. He’s a guest. “Where are you headed?”

“To retire for the night.”

“May I accompany you?”

You want to say yes. You nearly do. “That’s not necessary. And it’s presumptuous of you to ask.”

“My mistake.” English bows with a flourish. “I only mean to walk with you for a while. It will help me learn my way around here so I don’t get lost again.”

“Are you lost?”

“I have been found. But yes, I was lost.”

“Then I should guide you to _your_ apartment for the night.”

“An excellent idea, your majesty.” You should find that sycophantic, but it feels charming, or endearing. Like you crave his approval as badly as he should crave yours. Perhaps you should bring him back to your bed, have a filthy, torrid affair with him, and then continue on your way without this tension in your gut each time you see his face.

But, English starts walking, and so do you. You just need to lead him down a few floors. Luckily, the castle is roughly shaped in a square. Just a few stairs and right turns stand between English and his temporary bed. A bed you would like to join him in.

“Those are some distinctive scars,” you say to try and keep your thoughts from wandering. “How did you get them?”

“Scrums with wild beasts,” English tells you. “Mighty creatures native to my home island! Dragons, and wild rams, and great crustacean monstrosities! Each one more fearsome than the last!”

His voice is so energetic, so fun, and so easy to listen to. He starts to describe various creatures that have left their mark upon him and you can’t help but smile as you listen and deliver quips about the traits of these monsters and his victories against them. Sentries posted periodically through the hallway seem to look at you with approval. Then with confusion. But why are they confused? A king and his guest walking through the palace is completely normal.

“Do you enjoy your new role?” English asks.

“More than I thought I would,” you answer. “I am the last one to say that king-ing is easy, but I would much rather be doing this than anything else they would want me to do.”

“Like what?”

“Lead armies. Fight for show. Marry for treaties.”

“All the things your younger brother may do?”

“Exactly.”

“So what do you plan to do instead?”

“Debate tax policy and wear the gaudiest crown in our treasury.”

“And you’re all out of tax policy?”

“And I’m all out of tax policy.” You smile, because that’s funny, but it reminds you of how heavy that crown is and how you’re _still_ wearing it. And the cape is heavy, and your legs are heavy, and you don’t want to keep walking but you haven’t led English to his quarters yet…

“And you get to marry whoever you want, don’t you?” English adds.

“With the caveat they’re at least as rich and important as me,” you add, trying to fight the exhaustion in your own voice. “But instead of a teaspoon decided for me I’m at least dealing with a teaspoon of my choice.”

“But a teaspoon is still very small.”

“Right, insanely small.”

You feel a touch on your hand. It’s the same hand that has the ring he gave you, the ring you feel strangely uninterested in taking off. You received other jewelry that you put on to be nice and then put in boxes for later. But this emerald ring...

“Maybe you can’t expand your marriage prospects, but if I’m not mistaken, a king can have his choice of lovers.” English’s voice sounds like he’s wrapping your head in folds of velvet, blocking out the world and letting you rest in a warm embrace. Even just his touch on your hand is terribly inappropriate, he’s a foreigner and you’re a royal, but… you can’t let go.

You don’t want to let go.

“May I accompany you to your rooms, your majesty?” English asks.

 _Yes,_ you want to say. You want him in your rooms where you can kiss him, strip him, feel him, lick every scar he told you he has and sink into his body like a stone into a lake. You already feel like you’re sinking, a little bit. Or at least, the world looks hazy.

“I…” _C’mon, say something kingly._ ‘I must decline’ or ‘I find this too forward’ or ‘I should bring you to your quarters,’ something… “I forget where those are.”

English chuckles. “Are you the one who is lost now?”

“...Maybe.”

He lifts your hand and pats it. His fingers feel so warm. You want them around your cock.

“Then it seems our little tour through the castle has lasted long enough. I’ll leave you be and hope that our paths cross again.”

He leans down to kiss the emerald ring again, and your knees wobble. You want to sink down to the floor and press your face against his crotch, feel for his dick and worship it…

English releases your hand. And he turns, and he walks away, and you can’t make your legs do more than stay straight for the next few minutes. There’s a heat in your stomach, an ache that urges you to chase him and exercise your royal authority to strip him naked and fuck him until you forget you’re a king.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, but eventually your head de-fogs enough for you to realize, you probably passed the stairwell to the guest quarters four or five times while walking with English. And you just didn’t notice. His conversation had been so engaging, and his voice so handsome, and you completely lost track of time. Which was...

Strange.

But speaking of time, the time allotted for you to sleep before the tournament fights begin tomorrow is finite. You can’t worry about English, you need to sleep and then face the continued jubilations tomorrow.

You go to your quarters. You remove crown, cape, and everything else. But the emerald ring stays on.

 

* * *

 

Since your coronation, you haven’t had to fight in a single tournament, and thank god. That is easily the best part about being king. Clearly, your importance to the nation received a huge boost once you officially became its ruler. No one can risk your participation in violent sports anymore, even ones that supposedly prove your valor. You were never good at the sports. You never cared about the sports. You’re more than content to just watch.

Dirk revels in it. At least, you think he does. Your stoic little bro doesn’t show much positive emotion, but he jumps at the chance to duel every single knight that showed up to celebrate your birthday with clashing swords. Clashing swords are at the top of the list of your least favorite things, but this part of your birthday is more about national pride than personal enjoyment. You’ll just gaze blankly at the arena and wait for it to be over.

Your little brother does well, because of course he does. He’s fast and nimble and obsessed with swordsmanship, just like a real, honorable prince. Two competitors from Alternia catch your eye: one the unconventional decision to bring sickles to a swordfight and one for her tendency to be a dirty fucking cheater, kicking up sand and dishing out low blows to disorient and then defeat her opponents. The referee is really only there to stop the match if risk of harm gets too high, so she just keeps winning. Maybe you’ll do something dramatic and assign the top prize to someone else just to see the look on her face.

And of course, English shows up to duel. He’s good enough in the ring that you believe all those stories he told about dueling murderous beasts, but he doesn’t look like he’s in it to win. Actually, he gets matched with the Alternian cheater. He shakes hands with his adversary before the fight, grinning like they’re about to play a magnificent game together, before he puts on his helmet and the duel begins.

You can’t take your eyes off of him. The way he moves is like a dance, a performance. He doesn’t care if he wins or loses this fight. He’s just going to enjoy it. Bravado, panache, showmanship, it doesn’t matter what the word is, you can _feel_ it. English dodges a nasty kick and laughs, swirling around to strike at his opponent in a move too slow to hurt and too beautiful to ignore. You can tell he’s panting under his heavy armor. You want to feel his breath on the back of your neck. He performs for you and yet again, you yearn for him. You want him to encircle you, surround you, take hold of you and maybe even control you, just a little bit…

That thought is new.

He does well against the brutal Alternian, simply because he doesn’t wear himself down trying to  win, but she eventually bests him. The referee calls the match over and announces she will continue to the next round. English takes off his helmet and bows to you, and you realize how you’re posed. Your legs are crossed and one hand is pressing on your lower stomach, teasing a half-erection in your pants. It’s the hand with his ring.

You pry your hand away and applaud the fight like everyone else. You have to get this under control. You can’t take this any longer.

A strange thought whispers to you, _if he fucks you, you won’t have to._

God, if only the solution could be that simple.

 

* * *

 

The Alternian bitch won the whole thing. You don’t even feel bad referring to her as a bitch because she acted like a bitch the entire time, and now she’s strutting around with a medal on her chest. You have never wanted to see someone stabbed in the back as much as her. But you know your birthday would be ruined if someone died. So you’re going to put up with it and just enjoy a mug of the excellent cider the Pacificans gave you. Dirk will stop his stoic sulking once he gets to snuggle Little Calvin.

The celebration has moved to a large terrace, with lanterns strung up and food everywhere and minstrels are doing their minstrel thing. Their light, lively melodies encourage people to dance. You keep catching sight of English and notice how similar his dancing is to his fighting style, but there’s enough other people around that you can’t afford to gawk.

You still kind of want to gawk.

Compared to the night before and during the tournament, you do an impressive job of not thinking about English. There’s guests to chat with, servants to consult with, courtiers to debate with, and all the stuff that doesn’t go on hold just because you’re a year older and getting slowly drunk on cider. Those rules about how a king needs to show a neutral, dispassionate face are starting to look a little bendable. You’re more charming when you’re tipsy, you know that, but you figure keeping those glimpses into your witty brain to a minimum helps build allure. It’s not special if you improvise poetry in time with the minstrel song every single night, after all.

And that’s when English comes back. He’s caught you standing by the lute player as you half-talk and half-sing about how much of a cheater the tournament champion is. When you notice him, you completely lose your train of thought. The observing guests seem miffed that the flow has been interrupted, but English is gracious and bows to them.

“My most sincere apologies, I simply had a question for his majesty,” English looks to you, and his green eyes are ridiculously captivating. The ring on your finger feels heavy. “Are your feet as clever as your tongue?”

Some people have never heard anyone speak to a king like that. You just answer the question as it is. “No contest. Cleverness award goes to my tongue. Feet can’t compare.”

Spectators laugh. English laughs. You laugh. You realize you could put that clever tongue to use through kissing him. You feel less inclined to resist that idea. _Is it the cider?_

English offers a hand to you. “Regardless, I’d like a chance to dance with you.”

“With me?” You’re no stranger to men in relationships with one another (these lustful thoughts besieging you the moment English kissed the ring are not the first fantasies about men you’ve ever experienced) but usually a dance needed a male and female partner.

“Perhaps this is just a custom from the Isles, but it’s common for men to dance together to show their skills to members of the fairer sex.” He’s still holding out his hand. Well, that makes sense, or at least enough sense for you to reach for his hand and let him pull you toward the dance floor. He thankfully adjusts so that he will dance the woman’s part, which you never learned. English smiles up at you, and you can barely focus on moving your feet when his eyes and face are this close.

“Has the party been to your liking, your majesty?”

“It’s been improving,” you answer.

“I bet you’re much happier with dancing than fighting.”

“Yes, that’s about right.”

“Are these your usual musicians?”

“They are, yes.”

“They are very good at coming into harmony with you when you recite verses alongside them.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you enjoy performing like that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“They don’t give you many chances to though, am I right?”

“Yes.”

He keeps asking you questions where the answers are ‘yes.’ You’d feel bad about not participating more in the conversation, but English doesn’t seem to care. He just asks more questions, and you keep answering yes. It’s almost a reflex.

“Are you glad you didn’t have to participate in the tournament?”

“Yes.” Did he ask that already, or are you imagining that?

“Did you enjoy watching the fights?”

“Yes.”

“I tried to put on a good show for you. Did you enjoy watching me fight?”

“Yes.”

“I enjoyed knowing you were watching me. You’ve been watching me a lot, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you find me handsome?”

“Yes.”

“I find you handsome, your majesty.” His body is close to you. Because you’re dancing, of course. But you usually aren’t able to rest your chin on the shoulder of your partner. His voice whispers into your ear. “Are you attracted to me?”

You can’t stop your honesty. “...Yes.”

“Given the opportunity, would you sleep with me?”

“Yes…” There’s a strain in your voice and you know it’s from want. _Can English tell?_

“I suppose all this means is, I’ll need to create an opportunity for you.” He purrs to you, and you feel like your bones are made of liquid, except for one part of you getting steadily more solid. “But I need your help. Will you help me, your majesty?”

Your response is breathy, weak. “ _Yes_.”

“It’s going to be very easy to do. I just need you to listen to what I say. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as blood continues rushing lower. “Will the guards do as you say?”

“Yes.”

“Do they control who has access to your bedchamber?”

“Yes.”

“If you ordered them to let me enter, would they?”

“Yes.”

He chuckles. Your chest feels his rise and fall in laughter and you can’t stand that there’s fabric in the way of your skin touching his. “That’s excellent news. You’re a very good king, to inspire such loyalty among those who serve you, and admiration from those who do not. You are very, very good.”

You feel good. You feel more than good, you feel hot. You want him so much.

“Now, I’d like to suggest something to you. I’d like to suggest your mind take the slightest of naps. Just for a moment, let your mind take a very tiny rest. Your eyes will stay open, and your body will move, but it’d be so beautiful, so pleasurable, to just let your mind go for a moment, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“On the count of three, let that nap start. One, feeling so sleepy… two, letting your thoughts go… Three.”

He kisses your neck, and you surrender.

 

* * *

 

You’re standing by one of the food-laden tables, a fresh mug of cider recently poured by a cupbearer. The last thing you knew, you were dancing with English, and now you’re here, to the side of the festivities. The dance must have ended, and then you moved on. Did he successfully find some lady to dance with after showing off his skills with you? Probably not, your rhyme is far stronger than your rhythm. But you can’t see him... did he leave? If he did, that’s a shame, but a relief. That dance somehow put you on edge, and the desire to leave the party address your urges is strong.

But you can’t leave. Not yet. You feel very certain that you can’t leave yet. Because… if you did, you’d be offending all these people who came out to celebrate you. Yeah. Exactly. Got a reputation to protect. As a good host.

You spend the rest of the night sitting on your throne, enjoying cider and speaking with anyone who speaks to you, but you’re disinclined to move. This boner in your breeches is just not going away, and you want to call as little attention to it as possible. But every idle moment, you can’t help thinking about rubbing yourself against the chair. Or your hand. Or someone’s body.

God, you want that body to be English’s.

An hour or so more pass, and you fight down three more impulses to leave. Then, after a few other guests have started to depart, you leave the party for your advisers to manage and go to your chambers. You are in desperate need of some privacy, take care of this and get yourself back under control…

The two guards at the door let you through to your apartments, and in your foyer, you start stripping. Stupid cape and vest and tunic and all the other restrictive royal nonsense, you just need to be as naked as possible and _fast_ so you can take care of this! 

“Your majesty, I did not expect you’d consider your foyer an appropriate venue for disrobing.”

The voice shocks you. Sir English stands in the doorway that leads to your bedroom proper. His party attire is gone, leaving only a thin shirt and his pants.

“What...?!” That’s all you can manage. ‘What are you doing here’ should be the whole question, but you can’t make your mouth comply. You just dumbly cling to your pants and freeze like a deer that heard a twig snap and isn’t sure if it wants to run.

“Remember? You requested my presence.” English steps closer, closing the distance to you, and then cups your face with his hands. You can’t move. You can’t think. His fingers are so warm on your face and you don’t want him to stop touching you. “Besides, would your guards have let me in here if you didn’t order them to?”

You… _might_ have done that. But when? You try not to look English in the eye as you think back, because if you look at his handsome adventure-scarred face you’ll lose track of your thoughts completely.

“You remember speaking to your Captain, right? And you asked me to wait for you here, until you were able to get away without besmirching either of our reputations?” His hands shift lower, down your neck and over your shoulders and arms. “I was there, I saw you do it.”

As English describes it, the moment feels more real. And he’s right, your guards would never allow an unauthorized guest in here. And if you had just followed him out of the party after your dance the whole region would know you fucked him. This all sounds so reasonable, like things you would have done. So why don’t you remember doing them?

His hands stray lower on your arms until he reaches yours.Taking hold of the hand with the emerald ring, he lifts it to his mouth and kisses the gem. With no other spectators holding you back, you can’t stop a small groan of want, need, lust. English looks up at you, a smug smile on his face, and you feel certain he’s orchestrated this whole thing.

Then he kisses the ring again, lips open like he’s kissing a lover, and you can’t stop yourself. You twist your hand to touch his face, tilt his chin upward, and then lean down to press your lips against his. You expect to feel satisfied, but the kiss is just a tantalizing hint of what you want from him.

When you pull away, English smiles yet again. “Will you serve me tonight, your majesty?”

You nod, breathless. The kiss is just a tantalizing hint of what he wants from you, after all.

 

* * *

 

He takes the lead in getting the rest of your clothes off until you’re wearing nothing but a cotton shirt. You’re hard, aching, and the shirt covers the boner but doesn’t hide it. English takes your hand and leads you toward your bedroom. You should be leading, right? No, wait, it’s fine that he’s leading. You want someone who shows initiative in their desire for you. Right. That’s part of why you’re so attracted to English in the first place.

As soon as you’re on the other side of the bedroom door, English shuts it and you descend on him, pressing him against the door and kissing, trying to drink English into you. He’s intoxicating, addicting, you want, you _want…_

“Stop,” he whispers when you part for breath, and you do. You have no idea what your face looks like but his emerald eyes sparkle mischievously. “I didn’t know you were so agreeable to taking orders.”

“I’m… not,” the words have trouble coming out of your mouth.

“Then why did you stop, other than because I told you to?”

“I’m no monster.”

“I’m rather touched to hear that. But you don’t you want to keep kissing me?”

Your body is still pressed against him, and you grind a little. “I do…”

A voice tells you to freeze, and you do. That makes sense to freeze. But where did the voice come from?

“Why did you decide to stop if you want me so much?” English asks you again.

“Because… I want to do more than kissing?” That’s a plausible response.

English wraps his arms around your neck and leans close like he’s going to whisper something. But you don’t actually hear his voice. You hear an idea. _“Suck me off now.”_

You remember wanting to do that earlier, so of course you still want to do it now. You pull English toward your bed, though your legs still wobble and the persistent ache between your legs makes it hard to focus. But once English is seated on the edge, you kneel down before him, and you make eye contact with the head of his cock. You want to drool it’s so beautiful. It feels like a treasure you’ve been missing your whole life.

_“Lick it first.”_

Another strange voice-idea, but you can’t imagine anything you’d rather do. You place your hands on his knees and spread them wider so you can lean your face in and lick him with long, broad swipes of your tongue. English sighs, and you do, too. You can’t help it. You just keep licking him, feeling his heat and weight and girth, and you take him into your mouth–

_“Don’t suck yet. Just tease.”_

Right, you shouldn’t make him finish this early. You don’t pull away from his head, but you start giving him small licks. English reaches for your hand on his leg and holds it tight. You grip him back and whimper, feeling the weight of that ring and the pressure of his fingers.

 _“Now suck_ . _”_

Yes... it’s time to suck him now. You take him into your mouth, just a few inches deep, like he’s thrusting shallowly into your mouth. The weight of him is fantastic, and you feel like your body is complete for having him in you.

_“Look at me.”_

You tilt your eyes up because you want to see his handsome adventurer’s face as you blow him. He looks like a fantasy, staring back down at you with confidence, dominance. But how could he be dominant? You’re the one calling the shots, king that you are. A king on his knees with a cock in his mouth. But that’s exactly where you want to be… Chose to be...

The dilemma fades from your mind as you look at him. You just hollow your cheeks and keep sucking. English threads his fingers between yours in a way that lets him thumb that emerald ring. The longer he touches it, the foggier your head feels. That wrapped-in-velvet feeling from earlier returns, like your thoughts are so comfortable they don’t want to move. You’ve felt like that before, on winter mornings buried deep under blankets. You’re buried deep in English, and his dick is buried deep in your mouth.

_“Deeper.”_

You lean forward much harder, pushing his cock to the back of your throat and swallowing around him. You’ve got a gag reflex and never had enough opportunities to suck dick and learn to suppress it, but English seems to appreciate your effort. He pets your hair with his free hand and groans as you suck him. That feels right. He should be pleased with you. You should…

The end of that sentence is ‘obey him’ and that makes no sense. You obey yourself. That’s why you’re king.

_“Stop… show me your face as you lick it.”_

Pulling off and turning your face up, you maintain eye contact as you lavish attention on his dick with your tongue. After all, you want him to know how special this is, and what your face looks like as you lick him. He should be thanking you for a display like this.

You want him to thank you by fucking you.

English looks incredible like this. He’s smiling down at you, approving and affectionate, and that builds your desire for him more. He holds tight on the hand with the emerald ring and you almost feel like someone is sucking your own cock back. It’s tempting and teasing all in one. The feeling that you’ll only get what you want by obeying English grows.

“This has been delightful,” English says, and for the first time in while, you hear his voice proper again. Why did he stop talking to you, while you were having all of those strange and wonderful ideas? “But I think I want something a little more from you, your majesty.”

You have no fucking idea what he means.

He raises his hand and says, “One… two… _three_.” And he clicks his fingers.

Then you stop having ideas.

 

* * *

 

Your brain feels like a puff of smoke from an extinguished candle. Thoughts are insubstantial and easily blown away. English puts his hands on either side of your head and tilts your face up. You can barely see his handsome face, even though you know it’s there. It’s like there’s a film over your eyes, but it doesn’t block your vision.

“Beautiful, aren’t you…” English mumbles to you. “The most wondrous treasure this nation has.”

You like that he said that because it was his voice. The meaning drained out of your head before you could comprehend it.

He presses his thumb on your lips and opens your mouth further. His cock follows, and your lips part for him without a shred of resistance. He’s thick and heavy and he presses in and out, touching the back of your throat. You find your gaze resting in the dark curls of hair around his base as your head continues to drift away like candle smoke and your body melts like the hot wax left behind. He holds you, pushes in and draws out and pushes in and draws out, and it just keeps going. Like the rhythm of this thoughtless bliss, he fills your brain with cotton and your mouth with cock. You can’t manage to work your swallowing reflex around his dick, and drool begins to leak out of your mouth. This does not dissuade him.

He pulls you off of him, leaving your mouth gaping and eyes gazing blankly forward. English strokes your cheeks and croons nothings to you, which is just as well. “You have to be my greatest adventure yet,” he says. Then he slid his hands further down your chest, under your arms, and starts to lift. Your body doesn’t move easily, but it doesn’t protest. English’s athletic arms twist you into a sitting position on the bed where he lets you rest for a moment.

“Hello, what have we here?” He reaches his hand down, tugs up your thin undershirt, and starts to touch your cock. Your skin shivers and tingles and your voice makes a noise you hadn’t heard yourself make in a long time. It’s as if his touch strengthens the spell in your brain and keeps any resistance you might have had subdued. “Now isn’t that a happy king? All this attention on the ruler of the realm but none of what you crave...”

It is a craving. Your hips move under his touch, arrhythmic and instinctive. You have trouble balancing your head on your shoulders and it tips back, but English braces your neck. Then he kisses your neck and the feeling just keeps pouring into you. There’s lust here, a feeling you can’t control and can’t address. You just moan as your eyes stare blankly ahead as English and all of his pleasurable touch _happens_ to you.

He leans you back on the bed and spreads you out, curious lips and fingers exploring your chest, sides, and hips. He finds a few ticklish spots on your sides and stomach and a few pleasure spots down your torso, including one you didn’t know you had under your navel. You still might not know you have it. But you sing under his touch like an instrument played by a master, thoughtless and senseless but so, so pleasured. Your cock is hard and proud between your legs, an indicator of how thoroughly English has controlled you and caused you to lust for him.

He takes a few moments to kiss you. Your mouth can’t keep up but you try because he wants you to. You’ve lost track of what constitutes the world around you but you feel everything spin as his tongue darts around yours like it’s playing or performing. He kisses along your jaw and up to your ear.

“I don’t think you’ll be taking that ring off, even when I leave,” he mumbles to you. “I’d certainly want you to be ready to do this again the next time we meet.”

The request sinks into your brain like an anchor and stays. Meanwhile, English takes hold of your hip and arm to turn you onto your stomach, and then onto your hands and knees. He takes the lead on removing your shirt, and you have no clue if that task was easy or hard. English simply makes it gone. Your body protests the position and quickly refuses to hold your body over your hands. Chest pressed to the mattress, the most you can do is leave your ass in the air where directed. English praises you for it, and the kind words make your body feel warm and happy, but you have no concept of why you’re posed like this.

English explores your back like he did your front. There are fewer sensitive spots there, for better and worse, but the melting feeling continues. You just want to dissolve into your bed and never move another muscle as long as you live. Your cock will learn to live with it. It doesn’t want to, especially when English reaches around to stroke it more, reminding you how much arousal exists there. You quiver under his touch, and he chuckles. “Is it right for a royal to look so eager…? I suppose so long as only my eyes see. I can keep your secret, your majesty…”

English leaves you a moment longer, and then when he touches you next, it’s cold and slick between the cheeks of your ass. You reflexively squirm and jolt, but English holds you firm, and he adds more and more of the cold, oily texture. Then his fingers press against your ass and in an unprecedented action, they slip inside. You can’t even comprehend that this has happened to you. You can’t comprehend anything but hands and pleasure and cold and slick and stretch. You moan for English and he speaks back to you, encouraging words that keep you still as he touches somewhere that no other person has touched.

Time stretches like blown glass. You have no concept of the stuff, even though you’ve always been such a punctual and time-conscious man. You just have no clue how long English has been touching you. When did you blow him? When did you find him here? When did he first touch you? Was the party still happening? Such questions did not actually penetrate the dazed, dream-like cloud around your head. English’s fingers penetrate your ass, though. That’s still happening, and even if you could vocalize your wishes you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop.

The pressure has grown gradually thicker. Lubricant drips down your thighs he’s given you so much. And then he leans over your back and pushes his own cock inside of you and you feel like you’ve been made _whole._ Days of tension and obsession are starting to snap and your voice matches, crying and screaming for English.

He grasps your forearm with his hand. “Shh, your majesty,” he whispers to you. “There’s a reputation to uphold.”

You silence yourself, but the only method you can think of is to not breathe. Your chest convulses under him trying to keep your air and pleasure inside.

“You hopeless thing…” He takes some pity on you and pulls a pinch of your bedsheets toward your mouth. “Bite,” he orders, and your jaw moves, pinching cloth between your teeth. “Now breathe.”

You can, and you do, and your screams are now grunts into your bed as English’s cock, the beautiful, magical, glorious cock, slides into your ass and starts to _fuck_ you. It’s a dream come true. It’s everything you wanted. You would be this man’s slave in gratitude for this love he’s making to you. All the prizes, treasures, adoration, responsibility, toss it all aside and just take this cock in return as your new god.

English fucks to his heart’s content. You can hear him moaning and gripping you possessively. He even takes one of your legs up off of the bed, balancing you on one leg and your shoulders as he fucks you deeper. You can feel his strength flowing into you. The physical strength fucks you, but the mental strength holds you there for him to fuck, and you could cry with how good it feels. You do cry. Your tears and your spit and in a moment your seed stain the bedsheet beneath you. English says more words to you when it’s done, but you can’t hear the anymore. He just holds you closer, fucks you harder, and with his glorious shout of ecstasy ringing in your ears, you black out.

 

* * *

 

Your first birthday celebration as a king is over. Everyone is packing up caravans and saying farewell. You can’t really focus on the diplomatic goodbyes you have to deliver. You’re too preoccupied with the impossibly vivid dream the night before.

It’s obvious that you came down with a brief sexual obsession with Sir English from the Verdant Isles. You’ve never experienced anything like that before, sudden and strong, but come morning it feels like it’s out of your system. You still can’t take your eyes off him when you see him bustling around the gates with everyone else getting ready to go, but the bodily desire is far less all-consuming. It feels like any other attraction you’ve had throughout your life. You can handle it.

But that still leaves a huge number of questions about what even happened. Do people from the Verdant Isles come with pheromones? Did that cider come with an aphrodisiac? The answer eludes you, like the exact details of your dream last night. You just know it was more than a wet dream, it was like a pornographic film played out in your very brain. You thought you found English in your bedroom and kissed him, but given the fact everything that happened _after_ was so completely impossible, that couldn’t have happened either. Then you woke up sticky and sore and ashamed with how hard you must have worked your body in your own feverish arousal. You know how you beat your meat has nothing to do with your ability to be a good king, but you can’t help it connect the two.

A lot of your court partied too hard in your honor, so many of your meetings bringing you back to normal life have been canceled. It gives you time to contemplate English and what happened. What he did to you, how he made you feel, why you couldn’t control yourself in front of him. Like some kind of hormonal teenager.

You daydream about him for most of the day, staring out the window at the caravan preparing to leave. You wish he could stay another night, or visit at a time when you could disguise your indiscretions more effectively. Or perhaps a trip to the Verdant Isles will be in order.

You make a tactical call to not say goodbye to him in person, but as his caravan leaves, he looks up at your tower and sees you in the window.

He waves.

You wave back. It’s the hand that bears his ring. And you don’t think that ring is ever coming off.


End file.
